


Moments (and discussing exasperating companions)

by Ladiladida



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Chance Meetings, Companionship, Friendship, Philosophical Discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 10:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19332901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladiladida/pseuds/Ladiladida
Summary: It’s 1901 in wintery London and Aziraphale has all the time in the world. But sometimes, little meetings with humans reminded him why he liked this beautiful world.





	Moments (and discussing exasperating companions)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a friendship fic that will focus on random meetings between Aziraphale and my OFC. I promise to throw some Crowley in too, he’s too good to leave out.

The frost had been a biting one for several days, it covered London like a skin. It was now mid February, 1901, and the country was still mourning the loss of their Queen. So, thought Aziraphale, the ice seemed like the epitome of the nation’s feeling. He’d seen people come and go, he’d watched the Crucifixion after all, yet he felt the people’s sorrow deeply. The cold didn’t cause him any ill, but for appearances he had to look as disinclined as everyone else to venture in it. 

But on this February day, with the frost waning and no rain, he put on his coat and hat and walked out. He loved how winter in London made every pool, lake and puddle look like the finest Venetian mirror glass. His appetite would call for some fine dining after this little constitutional and he felt quite light at that moment. The nation may mourn, but he, he was elemental.

Taking out a small mackintosh square, he placed it down on a bench opposite a thawing lake. Two swans glided by in all their grace and pigeons ducked and cooed about him. The white tipped lawns would be lush again in a few months and the sound of children playing would be in the air. For now, it seemed however, that he was the only one out walking this day. 

A short time passed in pleasant solitude before he heard a light tread. He turned his head slightly so that he would see the figure peripherally and eventually, they came into view. It was a young woman, no older than a year or two into her twenties. She quite rightly was ensconced in a large coat, seemingly too large for her, it was a man’s coat. A crimson scarf was wound about her neck and whatever the colour of her hair, it was well hidden beneath a hat. Her skin was pale and she looked tired, but the bloom of youth and beauty were present none the less. In her gloved hands, he saw a small book and it made him smile. Not appearing to see him, she placed herself on the adjacent bench and proceeded to read her little book. 

The leather looked fresh, it was newly published and he bent his head slightly to make out the author. It was a volume of Thomas Hardy. As far as authors went, Hardy was far from his favourite. However, with the scandal that man had caused in recent decades, it seemed interesting to find an impressionable young woman reading his work so openly. Perhaps it was safe to do so, now the reign Hardy damned so much was over.

“Good morning.” She said, starting him from the realisation he had been fully fixing his gaze on the volume. Feeling awkward at being caught out, he nodded and gave a hurried greeting in return. “Have you read it?”

“I... your fingers are covering the title... is it Tess or perhaps the Mayor of Casterbridge?” Aziraphale replied more levelly, for her eyes didn’t look upon him with suspicion. 

“It’s poetry, his I mean... it’s my first time reading his poems.”

“And how are you getting along with them?”

“Well... with everything so brooding at the moment... it suits the tone.” She laughed a little at the end, he guessed she was intimating that she herself wasn’t prone to brooding.

“Do you have a favourite?” His body now turned fully in her direction, though there was a good distance of some metres between them.

“I’ve read five or six, I only really like this one so far, it’s called The Darkling Thrush.” She explained. “I beg your pardon, I didn’t ask your name... then again, perhaps I should have waited for you to enquire about mine.”

“A new reign has begun, who knows how manners will change.” He laughed and his reward was a smile. Even after all these years, a human smile still carried some weight. “In fact... if you don’t find this too shocking, perhaps I might come and sit with you to continue this discussion?” 

When she nodded, Aziraphale rose from his seat, took up the mackintosh square and realised how he felt starved of company. He took up a place on the bench, placing down the square but leaving a suitable gap between them for propriety. All the while, she watched him, the book in her lap. She had kept her index finger poked inside the pages to hold her place. 

Aziraphale encountered now a pair of large, hazel eyes and he could see the dark ebony of her hairline. Her cheeks were pale and she had dark circles beneath her eyes. But, she would no doubt inspire a poem or two of her own in the bosom of the right  
man.

“Millicent Warren.”

She put out her woollen clad hand and he took it, thinking quickly...

“Michael... Aziraphale...”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, your name is very exotic Mr Aziraphale...” She leant in slightly, “Are you perhaps destined to be a writer...”

“Perhaps one day, I may feature on the page. I prefer to collect books.” He explained and he saw that she seemed to approve. “Religious texts mainly.”

This element didn’t seem quite to her taste, but she still gazed at him in a curious manner. 

“So... could I look at the poem you are fond of?” He asked.

Millicent opened the book and handed it to him. Taking it up, Aziraphale began to read it aloud with quiet reverence.

“I leant upon a coppice gate  
When Frost was spectre-grey,  
And Winter's dregs made desolate  
The weakening eye of day.  
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky  
Like strings of broken lyres,  
And all mankind that haunted nigh  
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be  
The Century's corpse outleant,  
His crypt the cloudy canopy,  
The wind his death-lament.  
The ancient pulse of germ and birth  
Was shrunken hard and dry,  
And every spirit upon earth  
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among  
The bleak twigs overhead  
In a full-hearted evensong  
Of joy illimited;  
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,  
In blast-beruffled plume,  
Had chosen thus to fling his soul  
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings  
Of such ecstatic sound  
Was written on terrestrial things  
Afar or nigh around,  
That I could think there trembled through  
His happy good-night air  
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew  
And I was unaware.”

When he had finished, he closed the book. He felt himself strangely moved by the poem, far as it was from Keats or Wordsworth, there was a beauty in it.

“I may not give up on Thomas Hardy just yet.” He remarked and handed the book back to her.

“It feels very like today, I am only missing a coppice gate.”

“He didn’t mention a solitary book collector.” Aziraphale replied.

“No, indeed.” She chuckled. “So I came out for some time to read. What has brought you to this bench?”

“The frost is ebbing and I fancied a stroll.”

“Are you not meeting anyone?”

“No, my friend is... away at the moment. He’s terrible for flitting about, I never know when he will appear.” Aziraphale remarked, his eyes looking back out across the glassy surface of the water. 

“Old friends?” Millicent asked.

“The oldest.” Aziraphale exhaled ruefully, “he’s exasperating.”

“Then may his return be soon.” She smiled as he looked back at her and he remembered that kindness and kinship was something humanity could do so well when it was inclined.

“What about yourself?” He asked in return and the corners of her mouth turned upwards ever so slightly.

“In three months I will be married.”

“My hearty congratulations.” Aziraphale replied, “Has it been a pleasant courtship?”

“Exasperating.” She mimicked him exactly, though not at his expense. She understood completely what he meant in using that word.

“And what does the fellow do?”

“He and his father run a milliners, so I shan’t ever be short of a dress or shawl.”

“You must get him to fashion you a new coat.” Aziraphale joked, “There is I fear a very cold gentleman missing his at present.”

Taking his meaning, she laughed and looked down on the dwarfing garment.

“It is my father’s.” She replied, “he boasts it is the warmest coat in London.”

“Does he approve of you reading Hardy?”

“He said no man would want a girl with a head full of Byron. Hardy is no Byron.” She said ruefully.

“Poetry can be a dangerous thing, as can those who wield it. Words are very powerful, once written they can command for lifetimes.” Aziraphale explained, feeling animated at this unexpected tete a tete. It’s not that he never spoke to anyone, but long conversations were usually only with Crowley or Gabriel.

“That is very profound.” Millicent replied, “Were you ever to take orders?”

“I suppose I have in my own way.” He chuckled, “Do you attend church?”

“Every Sunday.”

“I also enjoy attending the Ritz for lunch, a little indulgence here and there does no harm... I suppose that’s how you came to be here... a little indulgence.”

“That is exactly what it is, I have four siblings so quiet at home is nowhere to be had.” She explained, both pairs of eyes watched a regal swan pass, “I don’t suppose marriage will be any quieter.”

That made him laugh, it felt good. Millicent looked at her timepiece fixed to her pocket and tilted her head upwards to take a mouthful of crisp air. 

“Thank you for our talk, Mr Aziraphale. I am pleased I happened to come upon you.”

Again she put out her hand to him and he took it. Aziraphale was thankful for their chance meeting and realised it had given a different outlook on the day. Perhaps he too had come out in a brooding manner.

“Thank you Miss Warren, my congratulations again.”

Aziraphale watched her retreat from his view, her pace nimble. He reposed on the bench for a few minutes more, in truth hoping that by mentioning that friend of his, he may make himself known. However, it was not to be. The Ritz alone it was then. Where there was little company at times on this earth, there would at least be good food. Yet as he walked, the brief companionship of the young woman warmed him and in every thought of her, he became more grateful. Today, was not a bad day.


End file.
